Moira Rogers - Wilder's Mate

“Good.” He grinned up at her. “I bite.”

Her breath caught, either at his smile or his words. She pivoted too fast, wobbled, then caught her balance and moved to the small, rough blanket he’d laid out on the opposite side of the fire.

She shivered in the night air. Wilder told himself he was seeing to her comfort—and not to his own carnal curiosity—as he curled up behind her. “Too cold to sleep alone.”

“No biting,” she murmured sleepily, but snuggled back against him with a contented sigh.

“Bloodhounds have a core body temperature several degrees warmer than that of humans, you know.

Perhaps the women who chase after you simply dislike a cold bed.” Wilder was glad she couldn’t see his smile. “Perhaps they do.”

“Mmm. You should tell me the plan for tomorrow.”

“The plan? First we’ve got to get you a disguise.” If anyone involved with Nate’s disappearance recognized her, they’d never make it into the Deadlands.

“If we must.” She was clearly too exhausted to be concerned what that might mean. “I’ll figure something out tomorrow.”

“I know someone who can help. Now sleep.”

They rode into the edges of the border settlement just after noon, and Wilder led them straight to a whorehouse.

Not that it was advertised as such. No, the building looked boring enough on the outside, like a ramshackle hotel that had taken to selling liquor to fill its common room every evening. The clues were in the small things, like the way the damage and poor repair were merely cosmetic, and a closer look revealed that underneath the weathered boards were sturdy walls that would keep out the heat and cold. There was a knack to hiding wealth with squalor, a skill the border madams had taken to the heights of artistry. Old paint, crooked signs, tables with one wobbly leg—understandable, since it wasn’t wise for women to appear too prosperous in these times.

Most people wouldn’t notice the subtle signs that a brothel was doing well. Then again, most people hadn’t grown up in one.

Satira dismounted, struggling to hide a wince as she got her feet on solid ground. The discomfort was better and worse today—better because at least she could move a little, but moving certainly hurt more than sitting still. She surreptitiously stretched her legs and almost smiled to think of what Levi would say to her now, his gruff voice exasperated beyond measure. If you can’t walk it off, don’t stand up to begin with.

Wilder, of course, seemed perfectly fine. She pushed down an irrational surge of envy as she tied her horse next to his. “Does one of your contacts work here?” It wasn’t inconceivable, she supposed. Her own mother hadn’t spoken of such things but, if Ophelia was to be believed, whores heard more secrets than any preacher.

He gave her a maddening half-smile she already recognized. “You could say that.” The front door crashed open, and Satira flinched at the noise as it rebounded against the board wall. A voluptuous woman stepped out, boots creaking on the porch as she shouldered her shotgun and eyed the pair of them.

She was wild. Untamed. Corkscrew curls sat high on her head, held in place by who-knew-what sort of alchemy. She looked old enough to be Satira’s mother, but the body on fine display in her low-cut corset had curves, the sort men never seemed able to tear their eyes away from.

Her shrewd, assessing gaze lingered on Satira, too long for comfort. Then she shifted her attention to Wilder with a throaty laugh. “Wilder, honey, where you been hiding yourself? The girls have been crying into their pillows every night, they surely have, thinking you’d forgotten all about us.”

“Juliet, the day I forget about you will be the day they lay me in the sod.” He removed his hat and offered the woman a playful bow. “I’ve come to ask a favor.” An unmistakably fond smile curved the woman’s painted lips, and Satira felt the first stirrings of an odd, nearly foreign emotion.

Jealousy.

She fought to keep her expression politely blank, but Juliet’s too-sharp eyes narrowed. Fortunately, she didn’t remark on anything she might have gleaned, just nodded. “Why don’t you round up that poor girl and bring her inside. She looks like she might like to sit a spell on something that isn’t moving.” Juliet turned and retreated inside, and Satira glanced at Wilder. “Is it safe to leave our things here?” He shrugged. “Safe enough. If you’re worried, I can fetch your bags.” Combined incorrectly, some of the contents of her bag could set off a violent explosion that could level a good part of this settlement. After a moment’s thought, she flipped open one pack and dug through the contents until she found her kit, wrapped in one of her shifts. Each chemical was sealed safely in a nearly unbreakable container, but it wouldn’t stop a curious human from twisting off the tops and setting off a catastrophe. “This should stay with me.”

Wilder arched one dark eyebrow. “What the hell is it?”

She slipped the narrow leather strap of the small padded bag over her head. “You might be able to fight your way through a horde of vampires, but I planned to kill them a little more indirectly, if possible.”

“You’re not going to blow up Juliet’s place, are you?”

As if she’d be foolish—or suicidal—enough to ride with the bag behind her if it were liable to explode at any moment. “Not unless someone takes the bag from me, opens up everything inside and starts combining chemicals at random.”

“I meant on purpose.” Again, that wicked smile. “You haven’t seen what I’ve got planned for you.” The pieces fell into place a moment too late. A whorehouse. A favor.

A disguise.

Juliet’s voice roared from inside the brothel. “Wilder, I told you to bring that girl inside.” Satira flinched. “I think I might hate you a little.”

“No you don’t, sweetheart. You just wish you did.”

A woman met them just inside the door. “Wilder Harding, how did I know you’d—” She stopped short when she caught sight of Satira. “Hello there.”

She was beautiful. Perfect brunette curls swept back from her heart-shaped face to frame an elegant neck. Juliet might be hiding her wealth on the outside, but she’d clearly lavished it on the girls, if the cut and quality of the brunette’s corset and skirt were any indication.

Satira became painfully aware of her own appearance—her sunburned nose, uncombed hair and the dusty, ill-fitting clothing she’d worn for more than a day. She felt like a gawkish child as she averted her gaze. “Hello.”

The woman held out her hand with a friendly smile. “I’m Polly.”

“Satira.” Her own hand was dirty and far from elegant, marked from chemical burns, with chipped nails even Ophelia had given up trying to keep neat. She shook Polly’s hand gingerly and wished Wilder far, far away before her growing awareness of him turned her into a witless fool. At least she could still remember her manners. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Polly cast a sidelong glance at Wilder. “Surely you didn’t bring the girl here just to scandalize her, you terrible man.”

“On the contrary. I have your boss’s marker, and I plan to call it in.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Wilder’s hand slid up Satira’s back to toy with her hair. Her body reacted with embarrassing speed, a shiver claiming her as his fingers stirred the strands of hair that lay against the sensitive back of her neck.

One fingertip graced the side of her throat, and her nipples tightened with the first whispers of true arousal, so ill-timed she barely heard the rest of his words. “A disguise. We’re headed to the Deadlands.” The whore’s eyes widened. “She’s got an awful pretty neck for that kind of destination.”